Stay-At-Home-Vacation
The key slid smoothly into the lock. I stepped into a small porch and then into a long hall. The door to my left was ajar. I stretched out and pushed. It swung inwards to reveal a large living room decorated tastefully in pale greens and reds and furnished with lamps and a wine coloured large comfortable looking leather suite. A stack of well thumbed books stood piled on a low oval table close to the head of the sofa; obviously a favourite spot for the house owner to rest. I could image her, curled up with the bright light from the bay window streaming in or relaxing in the soft glow of the lamps casting a warm glow as the evenings drew in. Best of all there is an open fireplace and to the side a wicker basket of cut logs. A good feeling comes over me. I’m going to enjoy this holiday at home I decide.
Carrying the letters and circulars I had picked up from the porch on my way in – a clear sign that the house owners were not at home – I made my way down the hall and into the kitchen.
First impressions were that the solid oak fitted kitchen had been in use for a while. Big and bright it looks like a well used family space, I mused looking at the modern pine table and chairs which I noted extended – for birthdays and Christmas’ dinners and cosy cups of tea with friends
Beyond the table, double doors opened onto a paved patio with seating, a table and sun canopy. I smiled. On a stay-at- home vacation sun might be in short supply but it looked a nice secluded space to have early breakfast or a late night glass of wine or two.
Unpacked, I decided I would check out the nearby town.
My heart beat a little faster. It had been 12 weeks since I had been in the shops. Life had virtually come to a standstill for me. I checked my bag again comforting myself at the sight of the bottle of hand sanitizer
, disposable gloves and face mask. My eyes lingered on my hands, red and raw from constant anxious washing. I gave myself a shake. This was a holiday, at home, yes and in a place that was familiar, yes but I was sure there were hidden jewels I had not yet discovered.
In the taxi I sat well back behind the newly fitted glass partition and tried not to have a conversation with the chatty driver.“Drop me in the Main Street,” I requested. Fumbling the money at him I tried desperately not to come in contact with his hand.
“Money is the dirtiest thing of all,” he murmured, slightly miffed.
The town centre in Strabane looked the same and yet everything seemed so different, even alien. Outside the shops and chemists, lines of people stood mutely, silent, avoiding their neighbour gaze. Some had their faces half hidden in the collars of their coats or protected behind strategically placed scarves around the lower part of their faces.
A man pushed past me wearing a black mask, almost like a ski mask. My heart jumped into my chest. Quickly I avert my gaze. Initially I had been staring at the long lines of people reminiscent of images in history books and news reels of WW2 shown at the cinema when I was a teenager. But in a flash my mind raced back to the black masked faces of the Troubles.
Shaken, I hurried to leave the town centre.
I would walk the “tourist route” I decided and check out the lower parts of the town. I stopped to take in the lovely view over the River Mourne and in the distance the striking structure of the new pedestrian bridge from Ballycolman to Upper Main Street rising against the hills and the green fields beyond.
My stomach reminded me I’d had no breakfast. I wished I’d done what I used to do and brought a picnic lunch with me. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I could buy one in Asda. I tried on my face mask. It felt strange but safer than going face naked.
It was a real challenge stepping in through the doors of the busy store. People swarmed about. “Social distancing” the voice on the antenna boomed making me jump. I glanced around. Not many people seemed too bothered. Please stay away from me I wanted to scream backing away from them.
My sandwich and bottled water tasted wonderful as I settled on the grass beneath the “Tinnies” fiddler. I was sure I could hear the soothing melodic sound. It calmed me and made me think of Barney Mc Ginley, of Ballindrait Village Co Donegal, son of Maggie. Maggie had a wee ‘huckster’ of a shop where we used to buy penny sweets while Barney fixed bicycles, mended punctures and sometimes played the fiddle in the kitchen to the back of the old fashioned two-storey house.
My lunch over I pocketed my rubbish, brushed myself down glad to be living peacefully in 2020, despite the pandemic chaos; so pleased to note no armed soldiers; no Camel’s Hump I prepared to follow the map I had in my mind.
It was nice to be out in the air and walking what used to be called’ the high pad’, the route that connects the twin towns of Lifford and Strabane.
Passing the Travellers Rest Inn memories crowded in of when once upon a time there was a Customs Post there where motorists were checked for tax, insurance and pedestrians for any bits of smuggling they dared not to declare.
My step grew lighter as I crossed the new bridge into Lifford Town.I clearly remember the old narrow stone bridge with its rise in the middle and the bright light of Strabane beckoning on the other side.
I stopped to find where the 3 rivers, the Finn, Foyle and Mourne meet as one.
My eyes focus on Lifford Infirmary as it was called in olden times. It was where my Granda died in 1950. Too young to remember him, I keep his picture on my desk at home and tell him it would have been nice to have known him.
Lifford is a historical place. Once famous for its Castle: Seat of Donegal, the County Library and Red Hugh O Donned.
As I walk its Main Street, each building evokes an image of a person, an event; of a time, when after work when my father permitted I’d danced at the Mecca Ballroom near the old railway station. I found love there, dancing to Joe Dolan and the Irish Showbands. Lost my heart to a wandering soldier; fell in love again and grew into adulthood without even noticing.
Circle completed, I am ready for a coffee in Mc Cauley’s friendly Cafe Bridge Street. There was a time when my order would have been a ‘knickerbugger Glory’. Tongue licking glorious scoops of ice cream, jelly, sugary fruits served in a tall glass with a long handled spoon to make sure not one drop was left in the bottom.
Back in Strabane I stop to reflect on the once famous meeting place, the Pagoda, to hear in my mind the mournful laments of the cattle in the cattle market and the accompanying smell that meant you held your breath until you were at a safe distance.
I note with pride The Ally Theatre and the statue on the library’s perimeter of one of the town’s famous sons’ the writer Brian Nolan, aka, Flann O Brien.
During my stay- at- home vacation my plan? – Look up landmarks and old buildings. That I do as I sit and muse.
A thought strikes me. What about Strabane’s famous sons and daughters? Poets, playwrights and musicians have carried the name of the town with pride to far flung place.
The thought persists. It is something I should do I muse as I make my way on foot over the bridge; note the new houses pristine with flowers where once Threadneedle Street used to be; remembered the day we moved my sister Annette from Melly’s flats on the Melmount Road into a wee house there and moved her back out before day’s end because she’d changed her mind – again.
I move on. Pass by Kings big corner house newly renovated into flats – a landmark lost – but to good cause I think.
I turn into Ballycolman Lane where my Auntie Teesh and Uncle Johnny Mc Colgan used to live – and where I had a lovely sit down tea – my brother Thomas and me – on the day we made our First Communion.
I place my key in the lock again. The house has a welcoming feel. The fire in the grate radiates a nice heat. July it may be but there’s a chill in the air.
Relieved to have faced my fears and braved the town I rest on the end of the sofa, gaze appreciatively at my surroundings, sip my hot chocolate, and pick a book from the pile on the table…
This stay-vacation has worked out good. Tomorrow is a brand new day – perhaps to Derry or Omagh or Donegal I’ll consider.
Covid 19 permitting.
Gemma Hill 2020 ©
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 